


A Farcical Attempt

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Having recently arrived in Valinor, the three greatest minstrels of Middle-earth are told they will participate in a contest against singers from Valinor.Daeron thinks Maglor is taking this competition far too seriously.





	A Farcical Attempt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SWG challenge “Competition”. I asked for (and because Dawn is awesome received) a song in a made up language for the challenge. "Amambanda" by Treble was the perfect song for the story.

“They want us to compete against singers of their choosing, to see who is best able to awaken emotions in the audience in a language few can speak, but they wish to ban us from using any languages that originated from beyond the sea according to them,” Maglor said, throwing himself onto the chair.

Daeron looked up. “And this surprises you why? I’m just pleased that Thingol doesn’t assume I’ve lost my skills, given how I ended up leaving Doriath, and Thingol at least liked me for a period before. Other than Ingwë and your Uncle, I suspect any fond feelings for you among the current leaders of the Vanyar and Noldor could be best described as nonexistent.”

“They also doubt you and Tinfang.” Maglor leaned over and picked up a piece of paper, beginning to scribble notes on it. “And we should be allowed to use any language, because all languages are equally valid to sing in.”

“They tried to make Olwë leader of all the Sindar released from the Halls, before Olwë informed them he would sooner abdicate than accept his brother’s position without his consent.” Daeron gestured towards himself as he finished his sentence. “Am I to be surprised that they would also doubt two Sindar minstrels or any languages that they themselves don’t speak?”

“The best singer is determined by skill, not which group of elves somebody belongs to,” Maglor stated. “Otherwise, it is nothing but a farcical attempt to prop up their own beliefs about themselves that makes a mockery of true music.”

“You’re finally learning how politics and elves work,” Daeron said. “I’m proud of you. Does this mean that you accept that their criteria are highly biased against us and we’re doomed to failing this farce?”

“No, it means that you need to go find Tinfang and bring him back here. I will be working on the language and our songs while you’re gone finding him,” Maglor answered.

“We, having arrived in Valinor this past week, are highly unlikely to know a more obscure language from Valinor than the people who have lived in Valinor their entire lives, since you have been in exile for seven ages,” Daeron said. “Have you learned some obscure language in the past week well enough to compose in it?”

“They merely said that it had to be a language of Valinor, not that it had to be a natural language," Maglor said. “People speak of how my brother took after our father in the forge, and forget that I learned his skills concerning languages. If I do not know an obscure enough one, I will simply make one.”

“Have you considered that this is taking things slightly too far for the sake of a competition that means nothing?” Daeron asked after a moment watching Maglor write and determining it wasn’t a joke.

“Taking things too far would be presenting them with an argument that no elven language is entirely of Valinor, because Quenya and the Telerin of Valinor can be traced back in their earliest forms to the Great March, and therefore their entire premise is flawed unless we are to sing in Valarin and cause the audience displeasure,” Maglor replied, still writing. “And even that would be debatable depending on which Vala you ask about where they first spoke their language.”

“Did you do that?” Daeron replied.

“Atar was, but I asked him to delay unless this plan goes badly.” Maglor glanced up from the page. “Shouldn’t you go find Tinfang?”

Daeron groaned. “Fine. I will go find Tinfang, and inform him that we are to sing in a language you make up, to win a rigged competition, if only so your father doesn’t spark some new linguistic debate that is guaranteed to end with somebody getting punched in the face if everything goes well.”

“Good. I don’t see why it’s taken you so long to decide this plan is the best idea we have.” Maglor continued writing on the page, which was now covered in a basic grammar.

“Because it is a plan that apparently requires you to invent a whole new language with a grammar, phonology, and vocabulary, so we can win a contest. That is hardly the definition of a sane plan, Maglor.” Daeron tried to pick up the grammar.

“You may see that when it is done.” Maglor snatched back the page. “And plans do not need to be sane to be the best plan we have.”

“The First Age makes a lot more sense when viewed from that perspective, I’ll admit,” Daeron said. “When did you abandon any hope of sane plans?”

“When we decided to fight a Vala while under a curse from a different Vala, in a land they had previously shown no signs of caring about,” Maglor replied. “And in a long term view, it has mostly turned out fine other than a few family members who were fated to live mortal lives and die or who fell in love with mortals.”

“This conversation could be used as proof that there is very little you have learned from the First Age about hubris, so it is unlikely to continue turning out fine even if I accept that definition of fine.” Daeron looked over Maglor’s shoulder.

“If you do not accept that standard of fine, you need to lower your standards,”Maglor said. “And we’re all doomed to fight in the Dagor Dagorath anyways, so of course it is unlikely to continue to turn out fine forever. Quite possibly the battle will be soon, if we allow for the theories that my father’s release is to be swiftly followed by the battle.”

“So now we go from a rigged musical competition to discussion of how we might wake up tomorrow and discover Morgoth standing outside with his armies, ready to kill us all.” Daeron stood. “I am going to find Tinfang before this conversation becomes any more concerning.”

“I’m glad you’re finally going to do what I asked you to do ten minutes ago.” Maglor grabbed a new piece of paper and continued writing, not even glancing up this time. “If you do see Morgoth, slam a door in his face and tell him to return after the competition.”

“Tinfang is exploring the forests, I’m unlikely to even be near a door,” Daeron finally said.

“Then go find my father’s house, enter, and ask him to tell Morgoth to return later,” Maglor responded. “I need to write.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Maglor is as much his father's son as any of the others and will take this fight exactly as far as he needs to win it short of killing anyone, even if that means inventing a new language.
> 
> That is his definition of hubris. "It's excessive pride if someone dies because of it, otherwise it's fine."


End file.
